There is little left her
for ole death to lay claim:
swollen bellies…parched skins…
sunken anchored eyes—
held in hollowed cranial caverns;
In this fenced graveyard
of waning life…flies soar freely
depositing metaphoric maggots
in festering wombs of despair;
In this God forsaken haven
flames of hope dim
with the wrinkling nipples
of the breast of time—
emptying her hourglass:
Here…in this surveillance of life…
there’s no refuge—no refuge
for the refugees—just the ghosts
of freedom…whistling in the wind.